


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by dahdeemohn



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Background Relationships, Hand Jobs, It's Actually A Very Happy Fic But Dean's Working Through Some Things, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Rebuilding, Self Confidence Issues, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dahdeemohn/pseuds/dahdeemohn
Summary: “Hey,” came Roman’s voice through the speaker, low and rumbly and entirely unlike how he projects in front of an audience; a voice just for Dean. After a pause, he continued with a strained, “Baby, come home. Please.”It’s that goddamn “please” that kills Dean, causing his stomach to lurch a little bit and made him stand up straight





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TitaniumKitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TitaniumKitten/gifts).



> My part of gift exchange with TitaniumKitten! Also this is probably the one and only attempt I'll ever make at Ambreigns, so like...pls be aware of that going into this. Sweatpants handjobs y'all!

To put it mildly, it had been a rough month. Few months. 

Rough while. 

Since the brand split and losing the title and now this shit with Seth and Roman, Dean felt himself slipping and sinking. And sure, he’d teamed up with them back at Survivor Series out of impulse and desperation to feel something other than numbness or failure, but it didn’t exactly feel good, and he could admit that to himself. Didn’t feel good to be left behind while those two…

Dean exhaled. The sort of mental derailment was what caused it all in the first place. He couldn’t lose his cool again, even if that’s what he was allegedly known for by the _adoring_ public. 

So now this shit with James; the familiar sting betrayal and steely taste of blood as he bit his inner cheek until it was punctured. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Dean would do what he did best, isolating himself from everyone until he felt stabilized enough to keep from shaking. In the meanwhile, it was obvious that hanging out at a shitty dive in Texas and knocking back watery beers didn’t help the way that they used to, but smoking pot would still get you in trouble with the Wellness Program, so Budweiser it was.

As he put another order in with the bartender, his phone vibrated against his leg and he tried his best to ignore it since the likelihood was high that it was just more concerned texts from Sami; it was hysterical that his friend was practically getting eviscerated night after night and lived under the constant looming threat of being separated from his significant other (were they still just boyfriends? Or were they finally husbands yet? like what was going on with them?), but ol’ Dean Ambrose was the one that needed fretting over. 

“Better not’ve gotten married without tellin’ me,” Dean mumbled to himself, pulling his phone out and itching to give Sami a piece of his mind about this entirely hypothetical scenario that had just been concocted, as well as to find out where he and Finn might be registered because goddammit the **least** they could do is let him buy them a gift from -he deeply suspected- Crate and Barrel. A glance at the screen confirmed that there were indeed 3 new text messages from Sami, but the most recent alert was a missed call and voicemail from Roman. With bated breath the phone was unlocked and he pressed ‘listen’.

 _“Hey,”_ came Roman’s voice through the speaker, low and rumbly and entirely unlike how he projects in front of an audience; a voice just for Dean. After a pause, he continued with a strained, “Baby, come home. _Please_.”

It’s that goddamn “please” that kills Dean, causing his stomach to lurch a little bit and made him stand up straight. The bartender placed the beer in front of him, but it goes untouched and Dean paid his tab. Everything was cold and hot at once and he’s still too buzzed to drive, so he hailed a cab and booked it to the airport; he’d call the rental car agency in the morning to let them know where their car is. A red-eye to Pensacola was easy enough to catch, and it wasn't until his carry on bag was stored overhead and he’s seated that the tangled threads of an inevitable conversation wrap around his mind and tighten. 

The past two and half years - _christfuck had it been **that** long_ \- had been delicate and weird, but their arrangement fluctuated with it and adapted to both of their needs. Sometimes it even felt solid. Sometimes Dean needed space, a LOT of it, and Roman understood and accommodated, never pushed or pulled and always welcomed him back with open arms. Sometimes Roman needed affection, as well as to mother hen and dote unabashedly and honestly it wasn’t always the worst thing, even if it could be a bit much. A year ago things seemed to finally meld together seamlessly, they’d struck a really good balance through trial and error, and Dean found himself needing less and less space.

Then Seth came back. And, well. 

They hadn’t talked about it, but in the end it led to more space being needed. At first, Roman said he understood, but as time went on he hadn’t said much of anything at all. For a long while Dean just assumed that it was just another flux in their flow, but as Survivor Series grew closer and Roman and Seth stood shoulder to shoulder on the same side, a cacophony of self-depreciation rang loudly in his ears and drowned out every other noise, thoughts of _you’ve been left behind_ the only thing that resided in his head with any clarity.

Still, that _please_ overrode any of Dean’s other instincts, the instinct to steer clear of vulnerability at all costs. By the time the plane touched down and the inkiness of the sky turned periwinkle, he’d almost forgotten about the purpose of the many miles and countless hours he’d put between them for half of a year. Christmas decorations were suspended from every elevated surface in the airport lobby, and a dull pang of something indescribable settled in his core. Outside of a generic overpriced giftshop sat a small floral display with pre-arranged bouquets, and he halted his trek to purchase the healthiest looking one available, one with cheerful red and white carnations and dainty baby’s breath. 

With a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and the bouquet carefully cradled in one arm, Dean climbed into the back of a vacant cab and recited Roman’s address to the driver, leg shaking the entire ride over; thankfully, the driver kept to themself and had the radio station turned up, and CCR was enough to drown out most unwelcome thoughts. But then the car stopped, pulled up in front of the house that he sometimes lived at and couldn’t figure out whether or not it was home. Roman told him it was too many times, but Dean still had a hard time with the whole ‘trust’ thing, even though he’d been given a key years ago and his few meager possessions were stored here. He’d half expected the key to no longer fit into the lock, but it effortlessly turned and the door opened. 

For a few minutes, Dean stood in the entryway and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Everything seemed exactly as it was weeks, or even months, prior, as though time itself stood still; it hadn’t, time didn’t work like that, but this familiarity caused warmth to blossom and spread across his chest. From down the hall, a faint light illuminated from under the doorway that led to the kitchen, probably the light over the stove which Roman liked to leave on, and quietly he moved towards it, worried that with each step he’d break the stillness.

He honestly hadn’t expected to be greeted by Roman himself, sitting at the kitchen table with hair in a loose bun and a coffee mug in hand, and for the longest few seconds that had probably ever existed they stared at one another with mirrored expressions of surprise. 

“Hi.” Roman finally broke the silence, tender as always when it’s just the two of them.

“Hi,” Dean attempted to parrot back, but winced when it felt like the gravel in his voice is unwelcome amidst the calm, as though his very presence ruptured this ambience. But Roman smiled warmly at the greeting, and before he knew what he was doing Dean extended his arm out him, boquet tightly grasped in his fist. “These...I got’em. For you.” and the moment the words left his mouth it felt like a stupid thing to say because who else would they be for? And suddenly returning felt like a terrible idea and all Dean wanted to back out of the room, but Roman slowly stood up before panic had the chance to fully erupt, and within just a few steps they’re face to face.

“Thank you.” The flowers were taken and Dean still hadn’t let go of his breath, but he handed over the carnations, allowing Roman to take and smell them and act like they’re a worthy gift, like a dozen gift shop flowers can make up for an extended absence and being a shitty...god what the fuck are they? Brothers? Boyfriends? Was there a word for their collective weirdness? With a nod, Roman said, “They’re really great, Dean.”

“They’re really not.” Dean chuckled, his hand at the back of his neck, and his entire body froze when he caught the mix of uncertainty and longing on Roman’s face. The silence stretched on, until Dean could bear it no longer. “You...wanna hug?”

“C’mere you.” There’s almost no time to react as Roman engulfed Dean in an embrace, face tucked into the crook of his neck. The stiffness in Dean’s posture faded fast, and he lifted his arms to return the hug, eyes closed as he inhaled and the scents of all sorts of masculine shit, like coffee and good cologne and possibly pine trees, flooded his nostrils. The unmistakable press of lips is against his temple caused Dean to almost buckle right there. “Missed you.”

“I know.” Dean can hear Roman exhale, can feel him shake his head at the response, and the embrace tightens. “I fuckin’ missed you, too. Alright?” Had it been anyone else, Dean may have held back on the snark, but Roman gets it. “So why d’you smell like holiday cheer?”

“Oh.” Roman chuckled. “Got us a tree earlier. Wanna help me decorate it?”

“This why you called me?” Dean pulled back, his eyebrow cocked at Roman’s dopey grin. “‘Cause you wanted help with a goddamn pine tree?”

“It’s a Leyland cypress,” Roman corrected, then dropped his arms so that his left hand rested on Dean’s right wrist. “You like those ones the most. Said they smelled the best.”

“Ro, I got no idea the difference between ‘em.” It’s a lie, Dean’s made it clear for the past two years in a row that he likes ‘that cyp-rhiss they grow in Florida; what’s it’s name, Ro?’ the most. Roman snorted, and with a gentle pull at the wrist they slowly migrated into the living room, where a plump green fir tree sat stood in the corner. “So uh, which lights we doin’ this year?”

“I think the colored ones, right?” That’s also a lie, and Roman let go of Dean’s wrist so that he could rummage through the plastic tote. 

“Didn’t we do colored ones last year?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You like th’white ones, though.” Dean stared hard at Roman, who was focused on untangling a string of lights. “Right?” 

“Well, I’m in the mood for colored ones this year,” insisted Roman, and he triumphantly pulled out a strand that he’d unknotted. “That OK?”

“Y’don’t gotta do stuff just because **I** like it.” Dean huffed and took a seat on the sofa, both arms stretched out over the tops of the cushions. He awaited Roman’s response, either sarcastic quip or a “shut up” or _anything_ , but nothing comes. Finally, with less gruffness, Dean asked, “What?”

“Would you just let me do this?” The tone is similar to the one in the voicemail, and Dean’s heart caught in his throat. Wordlessly, he slid off of the sofa and kneeled down next to Roman.

“I was gone for a while this time, huh?” Dean started, and there’s an instant where Roman’s face drops, only to be recovered and guarded once more.

“You were.” Roman nodded. “But that’s you.”

“It fuckin’ sucks, though.”

“You sayin’ that to me or you?” The response was fast, maybe faster than Roman intended, and they stared at one another eye-to-eye. It’s when Roman’s eyebrows knit together and there’s not a trace of mirth to be seen on his expression does Dean’s own face drop as well. “Look, Dean-”

“‘M sorry.” Dean rushed out, and Roman shook his head.

“Don’t be. It’s you, I’ve known this, knew this before we…” Roman paused, he has no word for it either. “Before we were together, y’know. It doesn’t change how I feel any, I just get so...unbelievably fucking worried, OK?”

“I can-”

“You can take care of yourself, I know. Not worried about dudes jumping you or whatever, I know you can handle all that.”

“Damn right I can!” Dean proudly declared, and the tension is slightly eased.

“Yeah, got it.” Roman rolled his eyes. “I’m more just worried about when you get too into your own head. Wish you’d let me in to try’n help, but I know-”

“Ro.” A hand is placed on Roman’s bare forearm, and goosebumps form under Dean’s fingertips. “‘M sorry, I am. I’ll try to do better from now, it’s just...been hard.”

“Is it because of Rollins?” They don’t say his first name, like he’s goddamn Voldemort. His name doesn’t have room in their most intimate spaces, anyway.

“It’s a lotta things, if I’m bein’ honest.” The words were carefully selected, but it’s obvious that Roman can read them and sees their weight.

“He hasn’t replaced you. And he won’t. Ever.” And it’s like Roman can read his mind, and for some reason even though it’s the only thing that Dean’s been thinking about, he’s still taken aback and everything aches. Unconsciously, his fingers pressed deeper into Roman’s skin, and while he’s trying to process the white noise that’s filled his head he’s pulled forward into another embrace. There’s less caution and more desperation in this one, because words have never been enough in this situation. They both sit on the floor for so long and cling to one another, until their breathing is less erratic and finally synchronizes. 

Dean considered a lot of things that could be said then, but they’re all words they’ve gone over before and he’s tired of repeating them, tired of even the smallest fraction of his mind residing somewhere that never deserved his attention or grief or ire in the first place. It’s an undeserving wound that he knows should be scar tissue by now and shouldn’t still fester, not when Roman has always been so closeby and so warm and beautiful. And it’s not just Seth, it’s the instability he’s faced his entire life, it’s bad thoughts that lead to self-destructive rituals, it’s prioritizing survival but being so blinded by that there’s no way to ever thrive. Roman’s never deserved this, never his claws and fangs and his tendency to burn everything around him down to the ground just to make a point or an escape, but he’s endured and constantly ensures Dean that he’ll continue to do so; sometimes, Dean wishes Roman would snap, say that enough’s enough and be through with him, because it’s what everyone else has done and waiting for it is so exhausting. Yet there’s that voicemail on his phone and they sit together on the floor with a cypress tree looming above them and colorful lightbulbs all around. 

“You sure y’don’t wanna do the white lights?” Dean manages to get out, his voice slightly tremoring, and Roman can hardly choke back a laugh.

“I’m sure.” A kiss is placed on Dean’s forehead, and Dean lifts his face so that he can meet Roman’s mouth with his own; it’s slow and lingering, and while it doesn’t quite burn with the usual intensity when they collide, it feels like kindling that’s ready to catch fire. It’s released shortly after it’s started, and Dean grunts in disapproval, much to Roman’s amusement. “You still in your gear?”

“My gear’s my clothes,” Dean hastily quipped.

“Yeah but you wrestled in this shit last night. Go get changed into something that’s less soaked in sweat and whatever other grossness might be on those jeans. I’ll deal with the rest of this mess.” Roman waved a hand, gesturing towards the bathroom, and begrudgingly Dean got up. “And maybe take a shower.”

“Shut the fuck up, _mom_!” Dean called over his shoulder, but ducked his head to try to get a whiff of himself and realized that the smell of beer and cigarettes from the bar in Texas was still pungent. Taking Roman’s advice, he climbed into the shower and resisted the urge to turn the water up temperature up to scalding. After lathering up with his own soap and shampoo, which seemed to be left untouched since he was last back here, he rinsed off and climbed back out, turning the faucet knob to the 'off' position. 

Towel wrapped around his waist, Dean’s hardly dried off but he left the bathroom regardless and padded into the bedroom, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints on the hallway’s hardwood floors in his wake. Again, it’s as though nothing has changed: same linens, same fabric softener scent, Roman’s wallet and spare change on its same place on top of the nightstand next to the same unused alarm clock. The top drawer to his dresser was rummaged through, and it shouldn’t be surprising to find clothing still folded up from the last time he was here, but he was. A fleece pair of pajama bottoms were retrieved along with a longsleeved undershirt, and for a few fleeting moments he debated crawling into bed to catch up on missed sleep, but he’s already kept Roman waiting for far too long.

Before he stepped foot back into the living room, Dean stood in the doorway and observed Roman, whose back was towards him at that very instant with a few ornaments in his hands being closely inspected. Beams of light from the sunrise filtered in through the gossamer curtains and made everything look soft and fuzzy, as well as giving Roman’s profile a glowing effect which only seemed appropriate. Suddenly, Roman’s head popped up and he looked over his shoulder, as though he could tell that he was being watched, and Dean shifted uncomfortably.

“You gonna give me a hand?” Roman smiled warmly and put the ornaments down, and Dean nodded, taking a few steps forward. A string of bulbs was handed to him, which he then straightened out with both hands and carried it over to the tree, wrapping it around the bottom branches and gradually spiraling it upwards. At the halfway point, he reached the end of that strand and requested more, which Roman supplied and their fingers briefly made contact, nerves becoming electrified once they touched. Eyes met, and Dean swallowed hard as Roman’s free hand hesitantly reached down and rested on the side of his hip, caution vibrating off of him in waves and on his face and in his touch. They both leaned in, foreheads resting against one another. 

“Sometimes I forget I’m th’taller one,” Dean chuckled. 

“By like an inch,” indignantly stated Roman, and it only made Dean laugh harder, eventually dying down when he felt another hand at the other side of his hips. 

“‘M sorry I’m like this.” Dean rasped out, the words bursting from his throat of their own accord, and his eyes opened wide at his admission while Roman’s shut. 

“Nah, don’t be. I mean, sure it sucks sometimes, but-” Roman shook his head. “What can you do?”

The string lights were bunched up in a single hand, then dropped back into the plastic bin they had come from and Dean wrapped an arm around Roman’s waist. It’s not often that Dean can stand to be confined or still, but it’s so good to share this space, this air and this embrace; if there was ever a singular moment that he could choose to occupy for the rest of his natural life, it may be this very one. His eyelids started to droop, but something is firm against his thigh and a glance cast downward confirms the front of Roman’s sweatpants have begun to tent outwards. Dean grinned lasciviously with realization, and placed his free hand against Roman’s chest. “What’cha thinkin’ about?” Dean’s voice rumbled, his fingers now splayed out across the thin fabric of the tank top.

“Plenty.” The response was short and Roman sounded short of breath as Dean’s hand slowly trailed down, the warmth of his skin felt even through the cloth. The instant fingers make contact with the waistband of Roman’s sweatpants there’s a sharp inhale, and it only made Dean’s grin widen further.

“It about me?” Every word is drawn out and Dean lowered his thumb so that through the sweatpants it grazes against where he knows the head of Roman’s cock is. Despite every attempt at seeming calm and collective, a muffled groan reverberated from Roman’s throat and Dean pressed down on the spot, rubbing a small circle there until the slightest bit of dampness is felt under his thumb. “You, uh, freeballin’ there?”

“What the hell do you think?” Roman snapped and struggled to remain stoic, but failed and smirked, then dropped his chin onto Dean’s shoulder. As Dean readjusted his hand so that a few fingers could graze against the outline of Roman’s shaft, teeth pressed up against the base of his neck and he shuddered.

“Not too sure. Might have t’do some investigating to find out.” The teeth continued to push, sure to leave indents; their sting felt too good and Dean threw his head back to give Roman more access, but the back of it hit a wall and he realized that he’s been gradually pushed backwards. Roman’s own thumbs dipped under Dean’s waistband, and it’s the most contact he’s had in months, searing to the touch and Dean thinks that maybe he’ll be alright to handle more, since he knows he’s safe here and lov-

He stopped himself before the word can take on a full form in his brain, and without any further thought he yanked Roman’s sweatpants down enough so that his erection sprang free and brushed Dean’s shirt. Roughly he grasped at Roman, twisting his fist once it was full of cock and whispered, “Guess that answers that.”

“ _Fuck_ ”, Roman choked out in surprise, his chest sharply rose and fell as Dean pumped away with no regularity, slow strokes mixed in with quick jerks and no opportunity whatsoever to adjust to any of it; Dean knows that this is torture to Roman, who when allowed to lead will easily fall into a steady rhythm, and that isn’t the Roman that Dean wanted right now. Dean wanted those thumbs at his hips practically pushed into bones until there are bruises, maybe even fractures, and he wanted the teeth to cause blood to pool up just under the skin that they bore down upon. Ultimately, he knew too well that he won’t get any of that but it’s fine. He’s drifted for too long for Roman to be able to be anything other than gentle and cautious, and that’s just as well.

One of Roman's hands made the full plunge and fingers wrapped around Dean's stiff cock. He's worked from within his pajama pants (which, on further thought, may have originally been Roman's at one point) and the caresses were featherlight, which drives Dean up a tree and Roman is well aware of that. In frustration, Dean bucked his hips up against Roman's palm as some attempt to gain more friction, but Roman doesn't yield and still kept his grip loose. There's a snarl on Dean's lips when he moaned out "fuckin' cut it out", only to be met by an equally tense "you first, asshole", and they both let out a shaky laugh, cut off by a firm kiss; the middle ground.

Finally, Roman increased the pressure and the way he jerks up and down is steady and predictable, his thumb swiping over the top of the glans every third stroke or so and it's slick from pre-cum and overstimulating. Dean attempted to hold out for as long as possible, the way that Roman tremors and curses in his mouth intoxicating, but teeth sink into his bottom lip and it's everything he wants, so he picked a tempo and stuck to it and is rewarded with another bite that may have broke skin and he groaned loudly.

"That too much?" Roman hoarsely whispered, and Dean shook his head in response while he licked his lip, his mind hazy and unable to form words and eyes squeezed tightly to immerse as much in these sensations as he can. The other hand at his hip dug in further, short nails just sharp enough and Dean’s cock started to pulse hard, a mantra of _fuck_ s slipped past his lips as his head lolled side-to-side against the wall. But then Roman lifted his fist higher, encompassing the entirety of Dean's head, and it's enough to trigger his release. For a split second Dean wanted nothing more than to go boneless and slide down the wall he's against, but Roman is still hard so there's no time to relish in anything other than getting him off. The strokes become mercilessly fast and hard, the slit of Roman's head thumbed at, and it takes mere seconds for, as Dean snarked out and earned himself a playful punch in the shoulder, "the Roman Empire to fall!"

"You're the worst," Roman breathlessly giggled, and Dean responded with a lopsided grin that's kissed off of him.

"Yeah, but you still-" Dean paused, the adoring look in Roman's eyes too much. "You still love me."

"I do." Roman slowly nodded. Maybe it's the afterglow that's made Dean brave, to acknowledge that it's a word allowed in their shared vocabulary again. That maybe things will be alright.

"I wanna go back t'how it was. Like a year ago." The words slipped off of Dean’s tongue, and he’s caught off guard by them but they felt right. 

"We can do that. We can do it at your pace and everything." Roman confirmed with restrained enthusiasm. "But you'll have to spend more time in Florida."

"I'll manage." Dean rolled his eyes.

"And you gotta help me finish with these lights."

"Nap first?" Dean yawned and took his hand back, wiping the stickiness off onto his pajama pants and earning a glare from Roman.

"Nap first."


End file.
